


Piatto Dolce

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley and Virginia broke up, but they can't exactly make a clean break</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piatto Dolce

The roast duck served over penne radicchio was absolutely divine.

Unfortunately, Virginia Bryce couldn't say the same for the company. Aidan Forrester was blonde and tan; he had perfect hair; he had made his first million at twenty-three, and doubled his net worth every year since then. At the moment, he was telling Virginia all about it, in exhaustive detail. She wondered if sticking a dessert fork into her eye as a distraction would be too obvious.

"Yes," she said, in response to something that sounded like a question.

"Sorry?" Only at Aidan's surprised look did she run his words back through her mind and realize he had asked, "_I hope I'm not boring you._" Not that he had meant the question seriously, but at least it had crossed his mind that he might not be as fascinating to everyone else as he was to himself. That was more than Virginia could say for most of the dull men she knew.

"No," she amended, thinking, _If you were going to bore me, you could at least do it in an English accent, with gratuitous allusions to demon mythology and puns in languages that weren't even human._ That was the problem with getting over Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Dating him had raised her standards, even for boring shop talk.

Virginia's cell phone started to vibrate, shaking her tiny handbag, and putting the excuse for conversation out of its already long-protracted misery. She knew it was rude to answer the phone in a restaurant, and ruder still on a date. It certainly wasn't the sign of a good date, but then, she didn't want Aidan to start thinking it was a good date. The sooner he got used to the idea of not having sex tonight, the easier for everyone involved.

She picked up the phone, flipped it open, and saw an L.A. number she didn't recognize. "Gotta get this. My catsitter. Murray's been having problems with his seizure medication." She picked up the call. "Hello?"

A soft languorous voice came through the headset. "Hey there. What are you doing?"

_Thinking about your accent._ "Enjoying my Friday night out," she lied. Standing up from the table, she mouthed, _I've gotta take this_, and stepped away. "Where are you calling from?"

"The hotel." Wesley sounded soft, lazy, and careless, as though he wasn't quite sure how he happened to be talking to her. Virginia wondered if he'd had a little to drink. "It's a slow night."

"So why don't you go home?"

"Gunn's out. Some demon nonsense, but it's routine. Cordelia has an audition. At least she says she does. Fred doesn't like to be alone, so --."

"I thought the problem was she _only_ liked to be alone."

"You're right," Wesley amended. "Actually, she loves to be alone. She also likes to build things and play around in the kitchen. Last time she almost set the hotel on fire. So I'm kind of stuck here tonight. I was just thinking – But never mind, you're out." He let the silence hang on the line, probably hoping she would jump in. A month ago, she would have been the one to make the suggestion. This time she would at least force him say it. "I was just thinking maybe when you're done --."

Enough with the waiting, she had a roast duck getting cold and a telecom billionaire getting uneasy. "You were thinking I should come see you, because you're bored. And as an extra special bonus, a crazy girl might burn the building down. What a flattering suggestion."

She could hear, from his voice, the exact way his dimples creased when he smiled. "I suppose I could order in some Chinese food, but that's my final offer."

Virginia's eyes traveled to the plate across from Aidan. "Forget the food," she said. "I've got it. I'll be there in twenty."

*  
Virginia pushed open the Hyperion door with her hip, balancing a large Styrofoam carton under one arm. Wesley stood behind the main desk, frowning at something on the floor, but he looked up as she entered and gave a smile that transformed his entire face.

She couldn't help smiling back. "I come bearing duck," she announced, crossing the lobby. "And I had to claim a cat emergency to escape from one of Orange County's most eligible bachelors, so this better be good."

"You got a cat?" Wesley frowned, obviously wondering if this was some extreme reaction to their breakup. "I thought you hated the wretched things."

"Real ones, yeah." She set the tray on the counter and flicked it open. "Imaginary cats are the greatest invention of all time. Mine's named Murray. He has seizures and a heart condition, which frequently require me to walk out on boring dates at a moment's notice." Wesley blinked when she said the D-word. She looked down at the tray, and tore off a small bit of the duck. Ready for eye contact now, she smiled and held the meat out between her fingers. "Try some?" Virginia imagined him stepping forward, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. She steeled herself against the shiver that ran through her body.

"Umm –" Wesley's face reddened and he looked at the floor. Virginia felt her own surge of embarrassment. So he didn't feel like flirting with her, then why the hell. . .? "Virginia," he said. "This is–"

A female voice rose from behind the desk. "Whatever you have there, it smells like Pylean crested gadwall, cooked up on a spit, served with rampion and a few sneetch eggs." Virginia leaned over the counter and saw a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor amid an array of plastic cups in a vaguely triangular pattern. "Only they weren't really called sneetches, but I made that up because of the Dr. Seuss book, that was what they looked like. Some of them even had these patterns on their bellies. Like stars." She ducked her head down, so that her long hair covered her eyes, and mumbled. "Never mind. I'm sure yours tastes a lot better."

Wesley cleared his throat. "This is Fred. I've told you a lot about her."

The girl looked up again, and her eyes widened at Wesley's announcement. Virginia knelt, and Fred cringed away, as if she could hide in her shell like a turtle. What he said was true, and it wasn't. Or maybe Virginia just hadn't listened very well. He had told the story of going through a portal to Pylea and Virginia, who had been raised in a powerful wizarding family, found nothing hard to believe in that. He had also told her all about "the girl" they rescued there, the reclusive math genius who was having a hard time adjusting to life back in her own dimension. But Virginia had always imagined "girl" to refer to, well, a girl – ten or eleven, maybe fourteen on the outside. Fred was clearly older than that. Late teens, Virginia had thought at first, but seeing her closer, she wondered if Fred might have been her own age or even older.

Virginia gave a quick, pointed look at Wes before offering Fred her hand. They'd have the talk about sexist terminology at some more convenient time. In a light easy voice, like she might have used with her seizure-prone cat if it existed, she said, "I'm Virginia. Wesley's told you absolutely nothing about me."

Fred shook her head frantically, but scooted forward and brushed the hair from her eyes. She looked up at Wes, who nodded encouragingly, then shot both hands out and squeezed Virgina's fingers between her palms. Deep brown eyes looked intensely into hers; then Fred let go and reached out to touch one of Virginia's long tight curls. Fred took the end of a curl and watched it straighten as she pulled the hair forward. "A torsion spring," she muttered. "Extension of an elastic rod equals distended length minus relaxed length. Extension is linearly proportional to tension. Negative extension is proportional to compression."

It was all Virginia could do to keep from reaching up to smack the girl's hand away. But she drew a steadying breath and looked up at Wesley, who gave a grateful smile. "You like my hair?" Virginia asked.

"Red like copper wire," Fred said seriously. "Like a new penny." She sat back on her heels and wrinkled her nose. "Mine's brown like dirt. But it helped me hide in the cave." She leaned close as though to confide a secret. "Handsome man," she said, "Saved me from the monsters."

"Yes, well," Virginia smiled at Wesley and started to get to her feet. "That's what he does."

"No," Wesley said quickly.

Fred pulled her arms around her knees, and started to rock. "He went away," she said, sounding forlorn. Fred picked up one of the cups from the floor in front of her. Virginia heard something rattle inside, and looked down to see that each cup had been filled to a different level with marbles. Shaking her marbles, Fred started to stand. "Maybe I should go upstairs."

"Fred." Wesley stepped toward her but stopped, not sure whether he should touch her, or how.

Virginia put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe _we_ should go upstairs." Wes looked down at her hand, as if he wasn't quite sure it was there. Virginia turned to Fred. "You can stay here and play with your marbles" To Wes, she mumbled, "She is playing, right? She's not building a bomb?"

"Yes, I think she's –" He frowned. "Fred, what _are_ you doing?"

She rocked back and giggled, as though it were obvious. "Math." Looking straight at Virginia, she asked, "What's _your_ favorite prime number?"

Virginia shot out the first number that came into her head. "Sixteen." Back in junior high, she'd had a crush on Joe Montana, and she was pretty sure that was his jersey number. Fred stared when she said it. Even Wesley kind of coughed into his hand. "What?" she asked. "Trick question?"

Fred dipped her hand into one of the cups and came up with a fistful of marbles. "I have the situation under control," she said gravely.

Wesley nodded. "Good." He gave the slightest shrug at Virginia. "Maybe we should go upstairs and let her. . .work. Have you ever gotten the grand tour?" She shook her head, and this time he put his hand on her shoulder.

They were at the top of the stairs and moving down the second floor hallway before Virginia remembered. "Dammit, I left that food down on the counter. I should –" She paused. "Well, that little girl couldn't eat it all. Right?"

"Hmmm," said Wes. "Maybe you should start thinking about what you want for dessert."

*

"The Hyperion was built as a showplace in the 1920s," Wesley said. "One of the first great hotels of Los Angeles, reflecting all the new money of the burgeoning film industry –"

"Wesley." Virginia held up a hand and when she yawned, it wasn't for dramatic effect. "When you offered the grand tour, I didn't really think you meant–"

He stopped abruptly in front of a cracked door, and pushed it open with his foot. "And this is where I stay when it's my night on Fred Watch."

"Very smooth." Virginia ducked under his arm and walked inside. "Lull the lady into a false sense of boredom, then lure her into your bedroom."

Wesley's voice followed her in, low and artificially casual. "It's like you know me." She swore he put a little bit of a growl in there. Well. She had known what this was about as soon as he called her.

It wasn't the first time this had happened since they had broken up, almost five months ago. This would be more like the fifth. Not that she was counting. First it had been, _You know there was so much going on, we never got to say good-bye properly._ Then, _That was far too much fun to let it be good-bye_, then _Angel bailed on us again, please come reassure me that I'm not going to die all alone_, then, _Come over and look at this interesting manuscript that has bearing on your family history and. . .oops, how'd that happen?_. All culminating in – or depending on how you looked at it, deteriorating to – tonight's _I'm working late and I'm bored and there are a lot of rooms in this hotel._ Though she had jumped when he called, so you could argue she was aiding and abetting.

This was exactly the kind of spare room she would expect Wesley to have. Everything neatly arranged, as it was in his own place, only furnished with the bare essentials. For Wesley, of course, these included a writing table desk with a fountain pen in a formal holder, five very thick books, (four old leather volumes in unfamiliar languages, and a new-looking hardback biography of someone named "Vera"), a framed photograph that she recognized – from an identical one in his apartment -- as his parents, and a small print of St. Paul's Cathedral on the wall above it. Virginia sat down in the desk chair, because it was the only place to sit that wasn't the bed. She was fairly sure how the evening would end, but she resolved not to make this so easy for him. If he wanted her, he would at least have to make some effort to seduce her. The heiress to the Bryce family fortune wasn't going to turn into anyone's fuckbuddy.

Wesley sat down heavily on the bed, and it shook with his weight. It was hardly more than a cot, really, with one thin blanket stretched over it. If he was disappointed that she didn't sit beside him, he didn't show it. He just sat back on his hands, then raised one to run it over his hair. He was letting it grow out, she noticed. It made him look both younger and more world-weary at once.

"I like that look on you." She leaned forward in the chair, putting elbows on her knees, giving him an eyeful of cleavage as though by accident. "Sort of absent-minded professor meets drowned puppy."

"What?" He did that confused blinking thing that made her want to kiss his eyelids.

"Your hair."

"Oh." He frowned. "I probably need to get it cut."

"No!" And somehow, she was sitting next to him on the bed, sliding a hand over his forehead. "You've almost got curls. The whole time we were dating, I had no idea about the curls."

A laugh rose up in his chest, and he reached out to take one end of Virginia's hair. "Torsion coils," he said gravely, pulling the end and letting it spring back. "I bet boys did that to you all the time when you were little."

"Little," she said. "Not so little." Then she was reached up to take off his glasses. Their lips touched, and he lay back on the bed, and Virginia pressed her legs over his hips, and gave in to the moment.

So much for resolutions.

*

"So, Wesley." Virginia sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and pulled the blouse over her shoulder. "I think it's pretty clear we should never do that again."

Wesley lay on his back, pulling the blanket up over his waist. He gave her the confused blinking again, compounded by his nearsighted lack of glasses. "You think it wasn't – " he stammered. "If you want me to, then I can – if you like something different, though I must say I thought it was rather. . ."

"Wes." Virginia reached down and pressed a finger to his lips. "It wasn't _rather_. It was _extremely_." She got off the bed, then knelt to search the floor for her skirt. "That's the problem."

"It's a _problem_?" he echoed. "Sorry, you lost me on that last leap of logic."

"What's hard to understand?" She picked up the silk skirt and slid it on. "This is a very nice commitment-free arrangement we've got going on. But there gets to be a point where looking forward to the _piatto dolce_ can ruin your appetite for the main course. Where the hell are my underpants?"

He reached down into the sheets, held up the satiny red panties, and shook them at her. When she reached out, he pulled his hand back. "Why are we talking in restaurant metaphors?" She grabbed at the garment, and he let go. "Or, to put it another way, what's his name?"

"Aidan," she said promptly and sat down to finish dressing. "It's not about Aidan. Aidan's an idiot. And so was Walter, so was Ted, so was Richard but –" She turned and looked sternly at Wes. "So not the point. Eventually, I'm going to find some guy who isn't. But it'll take some time. At first, I won't get all his jokes, he won't know to bring me a cold towel for my tension headaches before I even ask, and of course the sex won't be as good –"

"Wait, hold on. You get all my jokes?" His smile almost managed to look playful instead of forced.

"Well, not most of the puns in demon languages. But at least I learned to stop trying. Not the point," she repeated. "The point is, none of it will be as good, at first, because we won't know each other like you and I do. But it's that much harder to make the effort when we both know we can dial up great sex with no future, anytime we want." She leaned over and brushed his cheek with her lips. "Don't look like this is some tragedy. It's good; we figured out we'd made a mistake before this turned into something that was hard to end."

"Mistake?" He looked down at his hands and mumbled. "I'm so sorry that my getting shot interfered with your social schedule."

"Hey! Look at me." He let out an impatient sigh, but obeyed. "You only get to play that card so many times. And you've used yours up." She softened her tone. "The mistake happened when I confused a rescue fantasy with something else." His eyes widened, and she said quickly, "Both of us did. I think you were as mixed up about it as I was."

But that wasn't it, and as soon as he could speak, Wesley sputtered, "Fantasy?! Pardon me, but I'd say I rescued you pretty damn well."

Virginia couldn't help laughing at his indignant expression. "Yes," she agreed, "You absolutely did." When he looked more annoyed, she leaned toward him. "Handsome man," she whispered, brushing his cheek with her lips. "Saved me from the monsters."

Wesley pulled away and she half-expected him to brush the kiss off, the way an offended child would. "That's not the slightest bit funny. Fred's a sick, helpless girl who doesn't deserve to be mocked."

"Right," she said. "You have a thing about helping helpless damsels in distress. I, of all people, should have remembered."

"You?" He tilted his head and gave her an amused smile. "You haven't been helpless a day in your life. You came out of the womb with claws and fangs." He didn't have to tell her he meant this as a compliment.

"And, what?" She smiled. "You think the Princess of Prime Numbers survived five years in a cave by flashing her pretty brown eyes at anybody who threatened her? That girl may be disoriented, but I'd say she's pretty damn far from helpless."

Wesley smiled. "I'll consider myself warned."

She reached down to touch a hand to his cheek, and run it up through his mussed hair -- which had started this damned thing in the first place. She felt the warmth between them returning, and that must have been what put her off-guard enough to say, "You don't need me to be your damsel anymore, Wes. But we can always be friends." Virginia swore she actually felt the temperature in the room drop at the look he gave her. She wondered: if the word 'friends' was banned from bedrooms everywhere – how many unnecessary fights could be avoided?

When he finally spoke, his voice was cold steel. "Thank you, but you may have noticed. I have friends."

"Oh," she said crisply, thinking _And now the gloves come off_. She stood, stepped back from the bed, and was glad she'd had the foresight to get dressed. In her experience, the person with their clothes on had a built-in advantage in these situations. "How is Angel these days?"

"How the –" Wesley stared for a moment, then looked down at the blanket that half-covered him, clearly reaching the same revelation about clothing, or lack thereof. Unsteadily, he said, "How the hell did this get to be about Angel?"

"You're living in his home," she answered. "Taking care of his responsibilities. In fact, as far as I can tell, doing his job, while he's off mooning over some girl who _he_ actually abandoned years ago.. Hmm, why does that sound familiar?"

"Virginia –" he warned.

"Oh, right. That's how we met."

"This is a completely different situation. With Darla, yes, he did need to get his head back on straight. But Buffy meant a good deal to Angel. He deserves a chance to grieve."

"It's funny isn't it. Two completely different situations. Yet somehow, both ways, you end up holding the bag."

She expected him to shoot right back, but he was quiet for a moment and, when his voice came, it sounded remarkably steady. Low and even, with the slightest hint of a threat. "Don't talk about things that you don't understand."

"What don't I understand? Your so-called mission from the Powers on High? The one that is actually supposed to be _Angel's_, not yours. The mission that's more important to you than anything else – and by 'anything,' I mostly mean me. The same mission which is less important to Angel than any of his dead ex-girlfriends. Does he just have the two or –"

"Stop." He spoke again in that soft, controlled voice.

Virginia stopped. Then she shrugged. "I guess I can't understand so there's no point." He didn't answer. She found her shoes while he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She didn't look back as she went for the door.

She was half in the hall when his voice stopped her. "Virginia."

"Yes?" She caught her stride. _Don't turn around._

"You said you made a mistake. It was just a fantasy. If that's true, what difference could it possibly make about my mission or – Fred, or Angel, or any of it?"

She breathed in deeply. Time for some truth. She supposed he deserved it. "The fantasy," she said quietly, "Was that I could really mean something to you. The truth is that I'd always take a back seat – to your mission, or your champion, or whoever was the latest damsel in the newest kind of distress. There's no shame in it, Wesley, because I know you tried. But you don't love me, and you never did."

He took in a sharp breath.

"Well?" she said. "Tell me it isn't true."

The silence hung between them, until finally he spoke. "You don't have any idea what I felt."

"No," she said quietly. "I guess you're right." She waited for more, but that seemed to be all. "Well, Wesley. Anytime you want to tell me? You have my number." She pulled the door behind her, and turned on her heel. Then she stopped and listened for motion, waited in the hall to see if he would follow.

*

Two years later, Virginia Bryce was clearing numbers out of her phone and she came across WESLEYHOME and WESHOTEL. She tried to remember the last time either of them had rung for her. She had a quick flash of that blonde guy whose name she couldn't remember, roast duck she never got to eat, and a frantic young woman, kneeling on the floor, playing with marbles. Her thumb hovered over the number for the Hyperion Hotel. She stared at it, for a long time, and then she pressed delete.


End file.
